Matt C.

Matt (or Sonic the Viking, as he usually insists on being adressed as) is very silent and gentlemanly, rare traits in a trumpet. You can usually find him wrestling with thoughts, frowning down at his desk at his latest song or a test in confused hopelessness, then the sudden burst of inspiration comes and he scribbles down two paragraphs, half a page, only to cross half of it out later. He's always the last one to finish his test, which is one reason he gets such good grades. Jim B., who graduated a few years back and was a genius himself, referred to Matt's type as "that kid who seems to take time by the ton." Matt's always the one there soothing the pretty girls when things don't go just right, but the ugly ones, like me, his self-proclaimed big sister, cry alone. He doesn't notice. Some days he'll be flying (Literally. Once when he was high on pain-killers after his throat operation, he ran around the classroom flapping his arms and screaming "PUEDO VOLAR! I CAN FLLYYYYYYYYY! PUEDO VOLAAAR, PUEDO VOLAAAARRRR!") and nothing can touch him. Other days he goes off alone to cry and even his brother asks me what's wrong, like I could know. Somehow my shoulder is usually below him to cry on, but I have been privileged to listen to the achings of his heart on a few occasions. What he lacks in talkativeness he makes up in charm, and sometimes you want to hug him and drop-kick him into the nearest locker, all at once. His deep brown eyes are often the only expression of his soul, and looking into them can scare and elate you at the same time. He wears his soul on his face, almost, agonized, like a painting by some old unheard-of master. Matt is crazy enough to wear a Viking helmet and a dress for an English project, and tender enough to cry. He's also been John Stossel (for the same project), and disturbed most of his English class by popping out of a random locker and strolling solemnly up to the camera with a perfectly straight face to begin his diatribe on Brave New World. Matt is happy, sad, light, dark, warm, cold. His soul is at once an enigma, a dark secret, and something that screams from his eyes so blatantly you can't ignore it.